


chasing twisters

by isawet



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: AU, Adoption, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1505324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isawet/pseuds/isawet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU</p><p>At age ten, orphaned Shepard is adopted by recently promoted C-Sec legend Vakarian in order to repair relations between humans and turians damaged during the First Contact War, along with his two children: Garrus and Solana.</p><p>Shepard Vakarian grows up the only human orphan on Palaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Part one.
> 
> I don't have a beta, and I will fix mistakes as I become aware of them. Thanks!

Shepard has the same dream every night. She is running through the field, the long stalks whipping against her face and arms. Her family’s home is burning behind her, the dry heat pushing against the backs of her knees, her neck. She bursts from the corn and trips over something immediately, falling into the dirt. Her teeth sink into her lip and she tastes blood, slippery and thick on her tongue. It smells like burning metal. She rolls over, the dirt settling into dust on her skin, smearing gritty into the blood on her face, and looks at the stars, slowly becoming obscured by a rolling plume of smoke. 

 

She wakes with the sound of incoming Turian shuttles still roaring in her ears, and pads across the small length of her room, her feet sticky on the textured tile floor. She opens the window and leans out to feel the cold sweat dry under the sticky heat of Palaven. She counts on her fingers:

It has been six weeks and three Palaven days since slavers razed Mindoir to the ground, and Shepard Vakarian will never know the name her mother gave her.

//

She’d been onboard the dreadnaught for two months before the diplomats had everything settled, and almost completely silent for all of it. A nurse is in charge of fitting her with a translator and an omni-tool, and after Shepard went at her with a knife she stole from the kitchen their relationship was frosty at best. The nurse rumbles continuously while caring for her, a sharp jagged growl that sets her teeth on edge while turian talons trail around the edge of her ear. There’s a high pitched humming sound when they turn on the translator, then a snap of clarity.

“Well,” the turian nurse says, the first words Shepard’s been able to understand since they took her aboard, “at least that’s something.”

//

Relat Vakarian frowns, watching the last distorted buzz of the holographic desk sergeant blink out. He hears the door to his home office swish open and close, the lock engaging.

“When I agreed to take the administrative position I didn’t expect so many officers who clearly cheated their way through the academy ethics requirements.” His wife clicks at him. 

“When you agreed to take the administrative position I expected you would have more time for your children.”

Relat straightens. “My position on my work has always been clear. You have known this since you have known me.”

Amariti crosses his view, walking to the shelf against the wall that holds Relat’s C-Sec merits, awards, his military medals. She touches the tip of her talon to a lifetime achievement for his commitment to law enforcement. “You have brought a human child into our home. The least you can do is pay her some attention.” She leaves the rest of her words hanging in the air between them, and Relat’s shoulders stiffen.

“Say what you mean, wife.”

Amariti crosses the distance between them in two quick steps, a flash of smooth plates moving under loose fabrics. “You ignore your children, husband,” she says, her pale yellow eyes flashing gold. “You took on a damaged orphan and never once introduced her to your son, who thinks she is here temporarily, nor your daughter, who fears she is to be replaced.” She goes to step back and he catches her about the wrist. 

“I,” he says, and falters. “Primarch Romult asked me directly,” he says, more surely, “as did Councilor Johnstone of Earth. The fostering of a human child--especially one from a former colony--with a turian clan of our rank and reputation can do unspeakable good to repair relations damaged by the First Contact--”

“The girl has not come out of her room in two standard days,” Amariti interrupts calmly, “Solana has been sent from home from school and subsequently asked not to return pending a parent meeting--for which we are both expected to attend.”

Relat leans forward, his hands cradling her jaw, and waits for the half crook of her mouth, the permission in the tilt of her neck, before leaning down and pressing their foreheads together. He sighs out his own oxygen and inhales her breath, warm into his lungs. “I do not have answers for my children,” he says, “and words cannot express what the human girl needs to hear.”

Amariti smoothes his fringe, scratching with her talons. “Sometimes children need is for you to try. All children.”

//

“Can you tell me your name?” The Asari mindhealer asks her, two days from docking at Palaven. “We ran your DNA through an Alliance database and got a hit for your parents--Jaleed and Jieling Shepard, Earthborn.” There is a long, protracted, silence. “We can’t keep calling you Shepard… it’s not right.” She touches something on a datapad. “Sources indicate humans value given names, and your clan name will change when we reach Palaven.” She sighs and types on the pad. “I suppose we can let the Vakarians rename you, it is an adoption tradition.”

“Shepard,” the girl repeats, and the Asari jerks. It is the first word the child has spoken since they pulled her from beneath the bodies. She waits, but the child says nothing else, her dark eyes hard and flinty.

“Shepard,” the Asari agrees, and enters it on the datapad. “It’s better than nothing.” She presses send and stands. “May peace meet you, Shepard Vakarian.”

//

Garrus has his second ever new omni-tool and is itching to try it out. He ripped his first one apart to look at the insides and couldn’t quite fit it back together, not even with his mother’s guidance, and was suitably grateful when she picked him up a new one with no further consequences.

“Maybe,” she’d said dryly, handing him a small bundle wrapped in soft cloth and smelling of oil, “with the proper tools you will have more success.”

He wants to see if his mods will work, and he knows the perfect test: the door on the second floor of their home, the one with the big windows in the ceiling. He and Sol used to play there, under sunrays tempered by the treated glass, and now the lock is always red and not even Sol can get in. If he can hack the lock with something he built himself, Sol will go blue with rage for _days_.

His omni-tool beeps, the holographic display whirring as it attempts and discards possible combinations, and he frowns as the minutes tick by. He settles on the floor, feet propped up against the wall, and waits. 

//

The turian with the blue marks takes her by the shoulder, his talons resting on her collarbone, and steers her through the docking bay. Her arm hurts where they gave her a series of shots before disembarking, and the sun glare makes her eyes squint up, half blind. She has to scramble to get up high enough to reach the inside of the hovercar, but kicks out when the driver tries to boost her.

The blue turian chuffs at her, and she shrinks back. “You have _snitsc_ ,” he says, the translator shorting out on the last word. She gives him her best glare, up from underneath her hair grown out too long, and he makes that chuffing sound again. “I am responsible for you,” he says. “My name is Relat Vakarian, and you will be staying with me until you reach the human age of adulthood. Tell me you understand.”

When Shepard speaks her voice is rough, and it rasps against the inside of her own throat. “I understand.”

Relat nods once, sharp. Shepard goes back to watching the buildings flash by, one after another. They stop outside a house, big, two stories with a front and back garden. There is another turian leaning against a small wall running along the front yard, wearing a soft garment that flutters in the breeze. The car door opens and the full heat of Palaven hits Shepard in the face. Her hairline prickles with sweat. 

“Do not make me regret this,” Relat says, and Shepard follows him out into the sun.

//

Shepard is lying on the floor, looking up at the clouds move across the dark sky, when her door beeps open and a turian falls through, asleep. The glow of his omni-tool fades and Shepard sits up, looking at him. He has the same marks as the others in the house, and she vaguely recognizes him from around the estate. He’s shorter than her, by the span of maybe four fingers, and slimmer than her by just a shade. 

Falling to the floor wakes him and he jolts to his feet, eyes wide. Shepard rises, her own omni-tool flaring, and when he takes a step towards her she hits him with a wave of burnt orange tech, snarling.

He twists to the side, his omni-tool throwing up a barrier, and she hits him again, closing the distance between them for maximum effect. His omni-tool explodes into a shower of sparks and he topples, yelping.

Footsteps thunder down the hall and the female turian--Amariti, Shepard recognizes--bursts in. Shepard throws her last overload, her omni-tool sparking once and going dark, and it fizzes out before it reaches her. But the light flare surprises her, and she brings up her hands to shield her face.

Shepard vaults over the little turian crumpled on the floor, and dodges when Amariti reaches for her, a talon drawing blood along the outside of her forearm. She hits the floor scrambling, and grabs the doorframe with both hands, catapulting her around into the hall.

“Garrus!” Amariti cries, and Shepard runs.

//

“This is my wife,” Relat tells her, and the other turian tilts her head at Shepard. She is just as tall as Relat, but the arch behind her shoulders is more shallow, and the curves on the crown of her head are softer, curled over.

“My name is Amariti,” the turian says, and her voice is sweeter than Relat’s, like a song. Shepard stares at her, almost shy, and Amariti makes a soft clicking noise, one that makes the tension in Shepard’s spine ease a little. “Relat tells me you are six years of age. My Solana is nearly the same, and she says often she wishes my son were a girl.”

Shepard meets her eyes hesitantly. “My brother used to pulled my hair,” she says in a rasp, and Relat shifts on his feet.

“Used to pull,” he correct absently, and Shepard stares at the tattered laces of her shoes.

Amariti sighs. “How you ever gained a reputation for tact I will never know.”

Shepard sees Relat make a shrugging motion out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t believe I ever have. In any case, that’s more than the mindhealer could get out of her in two months,” he says. “You continuously astound me, wife.”

Amariti reaches out a hand to Shepard, where it hovers in the air for a long moment before she drops it. Shepard sets her jaw and pulls back into herself, her fists clenched. “We are fostering the child,” Relat says, walking past them both into the house, “not coddling her. I will clear the room.” Amariti makes a sound deep in her throat, like a rolling thrum, looking after her husband. Her mandibles are pulled tight against her face, and Shepard shrinks back against the wall, tucking her knees under her chin as the turian turns to face her. Amariti’s look softens. 

“I will not tell you it will get better,” Amariti says, crouching to catch Shepard’s eyes, her own a soft yellow, the same as the shade Shepard’s mother had painted the kitchen, “but I can say this: that all things pass.” She stands, and Shepard follows her into the house.

//

Shepard vaults out the window to the back garden, bare feet slapping against the stones. She stumbles through the sand patch, ripping across the delicately woven flowers and vines, and scrambles up a tree, climbing until she’s hidden among the leafy branches. She pulls herself into the leaves and peers out, her heart pounding.

The wind ruffles through the garden, and the whistling stones laid across the surface of the small lake hum their tones. Fine colored sand drifts across the petals she’d disturbed in her dash across the yard, the intricate patterns smudged and scuffed out. Distantly she can hear the steady boom from the shooting range down the road. 

Amariti steps out into the garden and surveys the damage. She clicks, disapproving. Behind her, the little turian comes out, hunched in on himself. There’s a little trickle of blood from the flat slits of his nose, and he rubs at it, sheepish. Amariti pushes him forward, prompting, and he stands up straight.

“I’m sorry,” he announces to the garden at large, “for breaking into your room. I shouldn’t have done that.” He kicks at the ground. “You shouldn’t have hurt me, either.” Amariti sighs heavily, and he shoots her a sideways look. “But I’m older,” he says with the air of repeating something he’d heard many times before, “and I should know better.” Shepard holds her breath, her muscles trembling with the effort of holding completely still. Her arm itches where Amariti scratched it, and she keeps it pressed against her back, hidden.

“Thank you, Garrus,” Amariti says dryly. “truly a speech deserving of the Primarch.”

The little turian scowled. “I’m only _one_ year older mom.” He turns and looks directly at Shepard, his arms crossed across his chest. “Are you going to come down or what?” Amariti cuffs him about the head, light but chastising. 

“Come down, child,” she says, “you will not be punished.” She pauses. “I promise.” Shepard unfolds herself from the branches, slipping down the trunk until her toes reach the ground. She hesitates by the tree before sliding forward, eyes on the ground. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

“I have some fault here, I’m afraid,” Amariti says, “I’ve been… putting off formal introductions.” She reaches behind her and pushes Garrus out closer to Shepard. “This is my son, Garrus. You’re of comparable age.”

“I’m older,” Garrus reminds her, his chest puffed up. She runs her fingers through his fringe, indulgent.

“Yes, son, and you should act it.”

Garrus scowls at Shepard, and Shepard returns it, automatic. They glare at each other for a short moment, broken by Amariti’s soft chuckle.

“I think Garrus needs to atone for trespassing into your space, Shepard,” Amariti says, “and I think you’ve done quite enough damage to our estate. Perhaps you two can work together and…. put things to rights.”

“You said I wouldn’t be punished,” Shepard yelps, startled out of silence by her indignance. 

“It’s not punishment,” Amariti says, and to the side and out of her sight Garrus mouths the words along with her, rolling his eyes, “it’s reparations.” Shepard smiles, and Garrus’ mandibles flare out, his lips parting in a turian grin. Amariti swats at him again, but he dodges successfully, darting out to catch Shepard’s hand.

“Come on,” he says impatiently, “when we’re done I want to see how you made your tool do that thing it did.”

Shepard breaks into a jog, being dragged along by Garrus’ thick fingers wrapped around her slender ones. “Okay,” she agrees.

//

“Enough is enough, husband,” Amariti says, and Relat sighs. He pushes back from his desk and stands.

“I remember when I used to get work done at home,” he says, biting. Amariti stares at him, her vocals rumbling. When she speaks it’s pitched in a low range he hasn’t heard since he missed Solana’s Marking Ceremony in favor of tracking down a mid level arms dealer. 

“I remember marrying a turian who took his responsibilities seriously.”

Relat turns sharply away from his wife, facing the window and tamping down his anger. He opens his mouth to speak and stops. “It seems, despite my failings, that the girl has found a friend in our son.”

Amariti makes a surprised noise, stepping up beside him. “Oh really.” They watch Garrus throw down the bucket of sand, gesticulating angrily. Less than ten feet away, Shepard shouts back at him, waving a handful of shredded stems angrily, and they both stomp their way to the small rock garden, straightening the stones with furious glances.

“They couldn’t get her to talk aboard the ship at all,” Relat says calmly, “this is a marked improvement.”

“You agreed to take her,” Amariti says sharply, “you can’t just expect our son to pick up the slack because you’re not sure what to do with a human child.”

“I have scheduled Solana’s school conference,” Relat says, before Amariti can build up steam. “The day after tomorrow.” Outside, Shepard throws a palm sized flowering cactus at Garrus, bouncing off the plates of his arm, and flees up a tree as he chases her, chattering a wordless noise of rage.

“She’s smart,” Amariti says after a few seconds. “as is our newest daughter. We can enroll her when we go to speak with Solana’s instructors.” Garrus scrambles halfway up the trunk before sliding down, his talons making grooves in the bark of a tree Relat’s mother planted. Amariti winces.

“Is that wise?” Relat asks. “I had though perhaps to employ a tutor, one who can balance turian curriculum with human history and culture.” Shepard hangs upside down from a branch, her shirt riding up to reveal bandages, and makes gestures that are universally constant. Garrus roars, his full vocal range opened up, and launches himself at the tree.

“And keep her locked up? No.” Amariti turns and walks across the room, pausing at the door. “She is a Vakarian now, and she will be treated just the same. Fairness in all stages,” she says, echoing one of his oft-repeated phrases, and he sighs.

“I bow to your wisdom,” he says dryly, and joins her at the doorway. He offers her his arm. “as I should, always.” Outside, Shepard shimmies down and shows Garrus the knots in the trunk he can plant his feet on. She links her fingers together and impatiently gives him a boost.

Amariti takes Relat’s arm, and he dips his head to nuzzle along her temple. “Let’s go to dinner, husband.”

//

Shepard hates school. She hates the teachers, the students, the classes. She thinks she might hate Solana the most. Solana, who sits three seats back from her and one row over. Solana, who personally downloaded the official report on Mindoir and showed it to their classmates. Solana, who sits across from her every morning while Amariti heats food that smells like the harvest feast chicken from Mindoir, cooked over the fire while the church women sang. Amariti unwraps Shepard’s ration bar every morning, frowning and muttering about needing to put in a requisition order for something substantial, and serves it to her on a plate made of fine clay. Shepard thinks briefly of a warm bowl smelling of cinnamon, served by a woman with a blurred out face. She blinks water out of her eyes and looks up to see Solana, staring at her all through breakfast, and she excuses herself early to go outside and tinker with Garrus, poking through the personal-log recorder Garrus had dragged home from a junkyard the day before. 

“The only thing wrong with it is the audio input is blown out,” she argues, and Garrus blows air out of his mouth hard enough to ruffle his mandibles.

“It’s almost eight generations behind,” he retorts, “the problem is that it’s a single use track disc. Once the etchings have been carved in, you have to buy a new disc and throw it away. It’s obsolete, it can’t be upgraded.”

Shepard catches the opening to the circuit board with the edge of one of Garrus’ small tools. “Not with that attitude.” Garrus lips part, his soundless laugh, and Shepard grins back.

Solana stalks out the house and flounces past, her head tilted high. “Edu-trans is here.” Shepard helps Garrus shove their project back under a tarp, and she picks up her small pack, swinging it up over a shoulder. 

“Good luck,” Garrus says cheerfully, and goes to sit with a few older turians, already towering after their growth spurt. Solana is already huddled with two turian girls about her size, murmuring to each other and darting little glances up at her, frozen awkwardly at the front of the transport car. Shepard looks down, shuffling along the aisle and avoiding the curious stares until she finds an empty seat. 

 

The school is non-descript, built for function and durability, and the desks are structured for turian bodies. Even in a classroom designed for younger turians, Shepard’s feet barely touch the ground. The turian instructor makes her stand and say her name to the whole class, her face red.

“Mm Shepard,” she mumbles, and tries to sit down. A three fingered hand catches her arm and makes her stand upright. “Shepard Vakarian,” she says, more clearly.

“Is it true that you can’t remember your real name?” Solana calls out, and Shepard flushes. 

“Shepard is my name,” she says, cold. Her fingernails bite into her palm.

“Enough,” Teacher says. “thank you, Elder Vakarian. You may be seated. Junior Vakarian, since you live with our newest student, perhaps you can save such personal inquiries for another time.”

//

Amariti waits for the transport to bring her children home, lounging in a chair and enjoying the early evening breezes. There’s a piece of old junk lying under a tarp, and she likes to imagine she can see turian and human fingerprints on the matte black surface of it, mingling together. 

Solana is the first out of the school transport vehicle, waving to her friends and accepting the press of her mother’s temple against her cheek without complaint. “I’m going to eat a palamt,” she says, and bounces cheerfully into the house.

Garrus follows, and little more sedately, and somehow already has a palamt between his fingers. He bites into the red fruit cheerfully, and jerks his head at his mother in acknowledgement, juice running down his wrist. “Kilas’ father is already teaching him how to shoot a rifle,” he informs her, just on the polite side of sullen.

“If only you had been born to clan Legium,” she says blandly, and he sighs, following his sister into the house. 

Amariti frowns, watching the transpo’s engines glow blue as it flies away. She half turns towards the house and its open windows. “Where is Shepard?”

Garrus sticks his head out. “I don’t think I saw her board,” he says slowly, surprised. He immediately looks sheepish. “I was distracted with my friends.”

Amariti frowns harder. “I asked you to look out for her,” she says, scolding, and Garrus gets a blue tint to his face.

“Why am I responsible for her,” he starts, but falls silent at her quelling look.

“She is on a new world with no humans, no understanding of our planet, and no money,” Amariti says disapprovingly. “I would have thought you would have naturally stood to help someone at a disadvantage.”

Garrus jerks back, stung, and slams the window shut behind him. Amariti sighs. She settles back, leaning against the front rail of her home, and looks in the direction of the school, calculating in her head. The front door opens and closes. Garrus tosses the palamt pit aside.

“It’s fifteen minutes from there to here,” he says, “if she left when we did. I’ll meet her halfway and walk her the rest of the way.”

“You are a good turian,” she says, and runs her fingers through his fringe. 

He jerks away from her, embarrassed. “ _Mom_.”

Amiriti huffs at him. “You are only eleven standard years, Garrus. Allow a mother her trespasses. Now go get Shep--your sister.”

Garrus heaves the put upon sigh of the eldest child, and trots down the road. His spurs are starting to come in, Amiriti thinks, and feels a stab of melancholy, sitting on her front porch with her son walking down the road, farther and farther from her.

//

Shepard’s eye hurts. When she touches it, it feels puffy and hot under her fingers. She can taste dirt in her mouth, and she spits out a wad of it, mixed with blood. She remembers a burning cornfield and her stomach turns.

A turian hand falls heavy on her shoulder and yanks her around. “Who did this,” Garrus demands, furious. He’s snarling now, and the rumble of his vocals makes it difficult for her translator to make out what he’s saying. He says something, louder, and she can’t understand any of it.

She pushes his hands off her and steps back. “I can take care of myself,” she snaps. 

Garrus snorts, but his subvocals are quiet again, and when he speaks again it comes through nice and clear. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Shepard walks past him, knocking her shoulder into his hard enough to rock him back a step. “We’re not even friends,” she spits.

Garrus shoves her back, a two handed push that sends her stumbling, but doesn’t knock her off her feet. “Don’t say that,” he says angrily, and for the first time she realizes that he is only a year older than her, his hands balled into fists and his face set in an angry turian scowl. It drops from his face as quickly as it came, and he scuffs his boot on the ground. One hand reaches up and rubs at the back of his head. “I mean, uh, we could be. If you… also think so. Maybe. Maybe?” He kneels suddenly and fumbles in her school pack, lying on the side of the road, and comes up with a small white square, made of plastic. He cracks it with his fist and offers it to her, suspended on his palm in the air between them.

Shepard takes it, the cold numbing her fingers as soon as she touches it. She presses it to her eye gingerly and hisses air through her teeth. “Thanks.”

Garrus rubs at the back of his head again. “Mom always puts one in my pack. Solana’s too. And yours now, I guess.” He shifts anxiously, and reaches out for her before dropping his hand to his side. “You okay?”

Shepard presses the icepack to her eye firmly and steps close to Garrus, shoulder to shoulder. Garrus leans on her shoulder and turns them until they face home. “Maybe,” Shepard answers, and when they walk their arms brush together.

//

“Tarihup won’t even talk to me!” Solana says, her voice rising shrill. Garrus winces, recognizing the tone, and shrinks back from where he’s eavesdropping against the second-story window, perched on a branch and watching the argument from outside.

“Calm yourself,” Relat snaps, “no one has ever heard words spoken in hysteria, no matter what ring of truth they held about them.”

“She’s a freak,” Solana says, calmer but no less petulant, “an alien. Just because she lost her parents doesn’t mean she gets to come here, take mine, and beat up my friends. I--”

“ _Solana Relati Vakarian_ ,” Amariti says in a voice like stone thunder. “You will stop this hateful speech right now.” Solana’s mouth shuts so fast her teeth click. “I have never been as disappointed in your character,” Amariti says, cold. 

Solana flushes brilliant blue, her subvocals chittering loud and angry even as she keeps her mouth pressed shut. She flees the room, stomping as hard as her little legs will let her.

“You have yet to share your side of the story,” Relat says, and Garrus recognizes the cadence to his voice, the same one he uses to interrogate suspects and the same one he uses when he asks who ate the last fortiht in the cold food unit. 

Shepard shrugs, mute, and Relat makes a noise of frustration in his throat. “You attacked them unprovoked, then? Struck out at innocent children? A fight between friends?”

“They’re not my friends!” Shepard bursts out, and lifts her head to glare at Relat out of her good eye. Garrus sucks in a breath, staring as she refuses to break his gaze. 

Amariti turns to hide a smile behind her hand, taking a second to school her expression. “Children are insensitive,” she says quietly, breaking the tension. She rests her hand on the small of Relat’s back and waits until Shepard darts little looks at her, guilty. “They spoke of your family.”

Shepard flinches in place. She nods, jerkily, and goes back to looking at the floor. “They spoke ill of your family,” Amariti continues, and Shepard hesitates for a second before nodding again.

“Leading the witness,” Relat grumbles, and sighs when Amariti scratches her talons on his back, sharp and chastising. “We do not suffer violence under this roof, not for the excuse of sharp words.”

“We’re not saying you can’t defend yourself if attacked,” Amariti says, reassuring, “but to attack a classmate out of anger--you must learn to control your emotions.”

“I expect you will be expelled,” Relat says, moving forward, and Shepard hunches in on herself. “fairness in all stages, and you struck the first blow.”

“Surely a suspension will do just as well,” Amariti argues, “to pull her entirely isn’t fairness, it’s a failure to recognize circumstances beyond her control!”

“The school will want to set an example,” Relat says sharply, “and as they are upfront about their zero tolerance policy--”

“What good is this rank if we cannot pull it for our children,” Amariti snaps, and Relat steps away from her hand on his spine.

“She is not of our rank,” he says, spinning to face his wife, “she is not--” he stops abruptly. “Go to your room.”

Shepard flees, her eyes wet and glassy, her socked feet slapping on the stairs. Garrus darts his eyes between his father, who leans heavily against the counter, head bowed, and his mother, standing all upright and stiff by the table.

“That was cruel,” Amariti says. Her voice breaks a little and Garrus feels something drop in his belly. “you can be so _cruel_.”

Relat straightens. “The truth is often--”

“Don’t you dare,” Amariti snaps. “I have been bonded to you for eleven years. Don’t you dare be unfair to your own children, to be cruel to your children. _All_ of your children.” She sweeps out of the room. Relat presses a fist to his forehead, breathing hard, and Garrus scrambles across the branches, swinging quickly into the neighboring tree and along the big branch that leads to Shepard’s room.

He raps his talons against the glass. _Tap, tap, tap_. Shepard’s face appears at the window, dark hair pulled back into a messy tail, dark eyes scrunched up in misery. When she speaks she sounds like she’s ill, her nose all stuffed up and blocking off the parts of her vocals that make her voice signature sing. It makes Garrus’ ears feel weird.

“G’way.”

Garrus taps again, insistently, and she scowls at him. Garrus thinks he likes anger on her face better than sadness, and he raises his hand to knock again before she opens the window and help pull him inside. “Shouldn’t have taught you to climb trees,” she grumbles.

Garrus lunges at her, his elbows knocking into the soft parts of her, her face smashed up against the pressure points in his collarbone. She makes a muffled sound of resistance and he wraps his arms around her, trying not to catch her with his spurs and the hard edges of his plates. “I saw this in a vid at school,” he says into her soft thin fringe. It tickles his nose, and he can see the brown spots dusted across her nose, fading into the dark bronze of her skin. “Humans like it.”

Shepard shakes a little in his arms, and she ducks her head into him so he can’t see her face. “Everyone hates me,” she says, her vocals hitching. Garrus opens his range just enough to generate a rolling rumble in his chest, vibrating all along where they’re pressed, torso to torso, just the same his mother did when he was small and fell against the sharp rocks. 

“I don’t hate you,” he whispers, shy, letting the rumble in to color his voice.

Shepard’s arms come up to wrap around his back, her fingers resting on the top of his cowl. “I don’t hate you either,” she whispers, and it sounds like a secret, words just for them.


	2. Chapter 2

//

Shepard Vakarian is thirteen years old, and she’s pretty sure she’s about to be expelled from school, for real this time. Her knuckles are swollen, the skin ripped and bloody, and she flexes them to feel the pain. She read in her biology book last week that pain is a neurological response to stimuli, that it’s a message to her brain that whatever the body is doing, it is damaging. 

Amariti sits beside her and sighs. Shepard waits for the hum of disappoint in her voice, but when Amariti speaks she sounds amused. “You know, you went about this all wrong.”

Shepard stares at the floor. “I did?”

“Three years you have known my husband,” she says wryly, “and has he ever decided something based on resistance?”

Shepard shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, sullen.

“If you really wanted out of school, you should have excelled and then presented him with an alternative.” Amariti sighed. “You know he never wanted you enrolled in the first place? He would have agreed, but now…”

Shepard scowls. “Why does he even care?”

“He doesn’t want you to think you can achieve desired results by acting outside the rules in place,” Amariti says simply. “Nothing in life is easy, child.”

Shepard balls her fists up again, and the thin scabs on her knuckles break open, seeping fluid and blood. “This isn’t easy.”

“False,” Amariti says sharply, “violence is always easy. Living with consequences is difficult. I’m afraid we will setting back your rifle training by another six months.”

Shepard shrugs again, indifferent. Technically she was supposed to start one year after arriving on Palaven, and at eleven she still would have been a year older than the other beginner turian children. Besides, she has a rifle hidden in the tree outside her bedroom window, cobbled together from junk, and Garrus has been teaching her how to shoot since the first time her training was suspended, nearly two years now. She’s a terrible shot, and it pisses her off. 

“Whatever.”

“Teenagers,” Amariti mutters. Solana’s feet appear in Shepard’s field of vision.

“How long will this take?” she asks, disinterested. “Can I go to the Kilat outlets with Ratheen?”

“I suppose,” Amariti answers. “be at home for dinner, please.” Solana leaves with her friends, chittering, and Amariti sighs again. “I do wish you girls got along better.”

“We don’t not get along,” Shepard says, leaning back against the wall.

Amariti rubs a hand across the back of her neck. “Sisters should be close.”

Shepard feels her lip curl. “We’re not sisters.”

“Well now you’re just being hurtful,” Amariti says mildly. Shepard looks down again, feeling the first flush of shame.

“I never meant to be trouble to you,” she says quietly, and Amariti laughs a little.

“Just to Relat?”

Shepard grins. “Maybe.”

Amariti digs in her small bag and pulls out a small pack of medi-gel. “Humor me, Middle Vakarian, and let me see your hands.” Shepard holds her hands out obediently, and the cool relief spreads across her nerve endings. Amariti blows a stream of air across her knuckles, so gentle Shepard wants to scream. “The Bleti brothers haven’t had an easy life,” she says. “Did you think about that before you tried to rip their mandibles off?”

Shepard sneers. “No one’s life is easy. If they want to run their mandibles about things that aren’t their business they run the risk of losing them.”

“Their father was killed by rabid varren,” Amariti says, putting the medi-gel back in her bag. She cradles Shepard’s hands in hers, her talons gentle on Shepard’s delicate skin. “Did you think about that before comparing their mother to-“ She pauses, trying to remember the exact phrasing, “the breed bitch of the ugliest litter?”

Shepard blinks, taken aback. She has never heard Amariti use anything but the most polite of language. “I—it doesn’t matter.”

Amariti clucks. “Everything matters. There is strength in empathy, if you care to look before applying your fists to any given situation.” Shepard’s face creases into a snarl, and Amariti lets the subject drop. “Did you win, at least?”

The door to the Prime Instructor’s office opens and she beckons them inside, her disapproval a tangible thing. Inside, two turian boys and their parents lean against the walls, bleeding and glaring profusely, respectively.

Shepard pulls her hands away. “I always win,” she says, and leads the way inside.

//

Shepard spins a chess piece her palm, bored out of her mind. She stacks the queen on the king, then flicks them all over with a finger.

“Do you even know how to play that?” Solana asks from the doorway. Shepard sits up on her bed, the board and pieces clattering to the ground from where they’d been propped on her hips.

“No,” Shepard says honestly. “Your father gave it to me for my naming day last year.”

“You could look it up on the extranet,” Solana says, and Shepard rolls her eyes.

“If only that had occurred to me,” she says, and lies back down to look at the ceiling. “What do you want, Solana?”

“Free fall vectors,” she says. Shepard blinks.

“I’m going to need more context.”

Solana makes a noise of frustration. “Physics. I’m terrible at it, and you’re… not.”

Shepard is, in fact, the number one ranking physics student in the school, despite her attendance record hovering somewhere below fifty percent. Last time she bothered to show up they were reviewing material that everyone besides her had failed on the last benchmark exam. Teacher had made a point of stopping the entire lecture to inform Shepard that the acceleration rate was different on earth, like Shepard cares at all about the intrinsic mathematics of a planet she has never visited, and she hasn’t been back for two days. She rolls on her side to give Solana a confused look. “So?”

“You’re terrible at classical poetry,” Solana says bluntly, and Shepard winces. She’d done okay last unit, odes, what with the battles and the killing and the bloody revenges, but classical turian literature is all about their connection to the spirits of Palaven, which has Teacher twisted up in knots trying to connect human history with turian lore.

“I don’t care,” she grumbles, and Solana scoffs.

“You hate being bad at anything,” she says. “I’m proposing a mutually beneficial symbiotic relationship.” She holds up two datapads, and Shepard squints to read the tiny text. A physics problem set and a long boring sonnet about the fathers of turian ancestors being spiritually present in grains of sand. “You’re on house arrest for two more days anyway,” Solana point out, and Shepard rolls her eyes.

Actually, she’s expecting just one more day of house arrest, because Relat got a call at evening meal that had him retreating into his office with his ready bag, swearing under his breath about smugglers, and if he leaves in the morning she’s going to spend the day in the abandoned landing strip two clicks away with her rifle. Still—“Fine,” she says abruptly, sitting up. “Let me get my datapad.”

//

“You could have waited for me to leave the house at least,” Amariti says, and Shepard freezes with one foot on the ground, her hands still on the trunk of the tree outside her room. “There’s no use climbing back up now,” Amariti says impatiently, “come out of the leaves and show me what’s in that case you keep strapped up there.”

Shepard climbs down and hesitates, holding the case to her chest and glaring up at her. “It’s mine.”

“We’ll see about that,” Amariti says sharply, and pulls the case away. Her breath catches when she flicks the latch and raises the lid, and Shepard stares at the ground, miserable. Her chest feels too tight.

“It’s mine,” she says again, her voice hitching.

Amariti pulls the rifle out of the case, testing the heft of it in her hands. She brings it up and looks along the sight. “Who built this for you, “ she demands sharply. “And don’t bother lying, you’re already caught.”

“I did,” Shepard says, mumbling. She wipes at her eyes. Amariti pulls the rifle to her shoulder and fires. In the distance, a single leaf jerks and disintegrates with the force of the bullet, falling to the ground in a fine dust. Shepard jerks at the shot, her eyes gone wide. Amariti points the barrel at the ground.

“I know my son’s work when I see it,” she says dryly. “but I appreciate the solidarity.” She turns the firearm over in her hands. “It’s not bad work, considering.” She turns and Shepard tries to school her expression back into nonchalance. Amariti laughs.

“Did you think Garrus got his skills from Relat?” she teases. “Solana takes after my husband.” Shepard laughs before she can catch herself—Solana can’t hit the broadside of a barn. “Garrus has a gift,” Amariti continues, “and he got it from me.”

Shepard steps forward, unable to hide her eagerness. “It pulls to the left,” she says, “but that’s the components. I was thinking of adding a scope mod for increased accuracy—“ Amariti is shaking her head.

“You need better parts,” she agrees, “but this will never be a good fit for you, look.” She kneels, lying the rifle on the ground, and beckons Shepard to join her. “the trigger guard is too big for your hands, too bulky. Garrus designed it for turian fingers, you need something more…. delicate. I bet you shoot as bad as Sol does with this.”

Shepard scowls. “I need more practice,” she says, “but since you won’t give me access to a real workbench—“

“You haven’t _earned_ access,” Amariti corrects absently. “there’s a dealer that comes to the pulgat that sells secondhand, brings stock from the Citadel. He would have something more suited to you than this…. cobble of scrap.” She frowns, lost in thought. “Even so, that you created something out of these parts is impressive, Garrus’ help regardless.” She stands, dusting off her hands. “You and Solana have been doing homework together?”

Shepard blinks at the change of subject. “Yeah.”

Amariti smiles. She ticks of her next points on her fingers. “Straight marks in all subjects, consistent attendance to your courses, zero altercations with your schoolmates.”

Shepard packs the rifle back into its case, her hands shaking in eagerness. “And I can go to the pulgat at endweek with you?”

“Yes,” Amariti says, “but you only practice under my supervision, and you must come out of your room for all meals—oof” she exhales sharply as Shepard hits her in a full embrace, the first hug they have ever had, Shepard’s face pressed into her midsection.

“I won’t let you down,” Shepard promises, her voice muffled, and after a second Amariti’s arms wrap around her shoulders, her fingers through Shepard’s hair.

“You need a haircut,” she says, and hesitant, presses her temple to the crown of Shepard’s head. When Shepard allows the affection she rumbles her vocals, soft and loving. “Don’t let yourself down, child, and do your name proud.”

//

The pulgat is full of aliens, and Shepard sticks close to Amariti’s side, her palms sweating in excitement. It’s the most non-turians in one place she’s ever seen, and they’re all shouting their best prices and deals. A Volus is sorting through a crate of his stock, setting out items for turians to peruse and placing others in a separate container. He lifts out a piece of clothing, pink with white lace at the collar and hems, falling delicately around his hands, and Shepard steps up to his stall to watch, something tugging her along.

Amariti turns and finds Shepard missing from her side, walking over to rest her hands on Shepard’s shoulders. “Child?”

A snippet of memory pulls at Shepard’s mind. “Dress,” she says clearly, and the Volus turns. “It’s a dress,” she tells Amariti, “for church.”

“200,” The Volus says to Amariti, “fine linen, good craftsmanship. Recovered from a colony ship, only one previous owner.”

Shepard shakes the faded memories out of her mind. “Can we go look at Nos Atra now?” she asks, and Amariti watches her, the faintest of frowns pulling at her mouth.

“Alright,” she agrees, steering Shepard away by the shoulders. “But that reminds me, you need new clothing as well.”

Shepard brightens. “Armor?”

“Are you going into battle at school?” Amariti asks lightly, “is vorcha attack during physical training a true worry?”

“Believe me,” Shepard tells her as they approach an arms dealer, “there are turians in my class with who I could put it to good use.”

“With whom,” Amariti corrects, eyes laughing, “and I think not. Now let’s see what they have in the way of beginner rifles for the many-fingered.”

//

“This is,” Garrus says, his mouth hanging slack, “so… _unfair_.”

Shepard vaults over the railing to retrieve the paper target tacked to the tree and brings it back to where he’s standing, still gaping. She slings her new rifle over her shoulder. Her shots are clustered neatly, five in the center of mass and three in the head. And one in the tree, but she’s hoping Garrus is too distracted by her sudden improvement to notice. “All skill, Garrus. Jealous a youngster is beating you at your own game?”

Garrus snaps out of his stupor. “One year older. I’m only _one year older_.”

From the back door Amariti claps, and Shepard beams at her. “Don’t be petty, son,” Amariti says, teasing, “and don’t whine, just practice.”

Shepard claps him on the back, sending him stepping forward with surprise. Two heads taller than her now, and she can still move him when she wants to. “Afraid a little human is going to show you up?”

“No way,” Garrus says, recovering fast. He pulls his own rifle off his back. “Step back and watch a master at work.”

“Leave Garrus to take back his pride,” Amariti calls out, “I need to speak with you on a subject.”

Shepard trots over, carefully flicking the safety and leaving the rifle leaning against the outside wall. Amariti moves into the kitchen, Shepard following and rummaging in a drawer for her rations. She unwraps a bar only to have Amariti take it from her hand mid bite. “Hey,” she objects, spewing peanut butter crumbs, and Amariti grimaces.

“Have to get you something better than that,” she mutters, “no matter what the doctors say, that can’t possibly have everything you require.”

“I like the peanut butter ones,” Shepard says, trying to take it back. Amariti holds it out of her reach easily.

“You will eat with the family,” she says simply, and sets it aside on the counter. “Now, focus.” Outside, the muted click-boom of Garrus rifle is easily heard, and Shepard leans against the counter, gangly and awkward, growing into her new height. “Relat and I are considering taking you off the suppressants.”

Shepard jerks, surprised. “Really?”

“Yes,” Amariti says. “You are nearing your fourteenth year, and Garrus will be leaving for service at the new moon. It is… a good time for you to start learning how to use your gifts, and Relat has finally located a biotic teacher who is willing to work with you after school, twice a week.”

A furrow appears between Shepard’s brows. “What about practice?”

Amariti blows out a sigh, exasperated. “You will have plenty of time to shoot up the trees of our grandmother’s garden.”

Shepard flushes. “Only one!” She protests. “I’m still working on the breathing cycle.”

Amariti prepares the meal for the rest of her family in short, distracted motions. “Is that your only concern? This your choice, no one else’s.”

Shepard shrugs. “Sure, I guess. If you think I can handle it without blowing up the school next time Titus talks shit.”

“Language,” Amariti reprimands absently, “and don’t think that isn’t a worry.” She places the dishes on the main table and takes a deep breath. “Tomorrow you’re going in for your radshots. We’ll have the doctor remove the suppressant then.”

“Scoped and dropped!” Garrus shouts from outside, and Shepard sidles over to the door, antsy.

“Okay,” she says, and jerks when Amariti catches her in a hug. “what gives?”

“Children grow up so fast,” Amariti says, releasing her. “go, go, and let Garrus have his victory.”

Shepard straightens her clothes. “I’ll be better than him one day, you’ll see.”

“I have no doubt,” Amariti says dryly, and watches her son and Shepard dance around the garden, waving paper targets and exclaiming boasts of their skill.

//

Shepard feels like she’s walking in paste the first week after they take the suppressant out, sluggish and clumsy. She falls asleep in advanced biology twice, Teacher’s face growing more and more pinched, and doesn’t even give Ritac a retort when he makes cracks about human sleep habits. At home she can barely pick up her rifle, and when she tries to shoot her hands shake so bad she can’t pull the trigger.

She dreams of the cornfield again, and wakes hovering above her bed, her hands glowing a brilliant blue, and when she flails, panicking, a wave of energy picks up the datapads on her desk and tosses them against the wall hard enough the screens crack. Amariti picks them up, her face tight, and puts new ones in her pack without a word of rebuke.

“This sucks,” she tells Garrus as they wait for the edu-trans, kicking at little rocks. One skitters dangerously close to where Solana is standing, and she throws Shepard a dirty look. “My head hurts all the time.”

“Yeah,” Garrus says, “but have you seen the vids? You’ll be so kickass.”

“I’m already kickass,” Shepard retorts, “or have you forgotten who came out on top at the range?”

“That was three weeks ago,” Garrus says, glaring. “and you’ve been putting off a rematch ever since.”

Shepard kicks a rock again, angry. “I can’t shoot until the biotic tutor clears me. Something about being a ‘danger to myself and everyone around me.’”

“Too late,” Garrus mutters, and she punches him in the shoulder, hurting her hand more than anything else.

//

The biotic tutor is a human, his name is Jivon, and Shepard doesn’t think she’s ever met a person she’s hated more.

“You know,” she says, sweat dripping into her eyes and making her half-blind, “you and my teachers should get together. Make a club.”

Jivon flicks a finger across his datapad. “Talking is not necessary for this exercise.”

Shepard pants, her hair falling in limp strings into her face. She shifts her body weight, muscles aching. “A ‘hate Shepard club,’ to be clear.” There’s another moment of silence. “What is necessary for this exercise?”

Jivon says nothing, and Shepard bites back a groan. She’s sitting crosslegged in the garden, holding heavy crystal stones in her open palms, and she’s starting to tremble with exhaustion.

“Concentration of will,” Jivon says. Shepard thinks he’s maybe said fifty words to her, total, since they’ve met, and those three have made up at least thirty of them. She drops her hands into her lap, the crystals falling into the grass, and winces. Jivon doesn’t look up from his datapad. “Again.”

Shepard takes a deep breath. Her fingers are numb, her arms feel like rubber. “I’m tired. Can we try again next time?”

Jivon says nothing.

“I’m done,” Shepard says, louder, “I wanna go eat.” 

More silence.

“Hey,” Shepard says, almost shouting, “are you listening to me?”

Jivon, from all appearances, is now asleep.

Shepard feels the rage like a dragon in her navel, roaring up through her chest. “ _Listen to me_ ,” she shouts, throwing an arm forward in anger. The crystals rise into the air between them, shaking, and blue lightning arcs between them and her. The crystals rip apart with a violent, electrical explosion, a boom like static interference filling the evening air. 

“Hm,” Jivon says, neutrally. Shepard slumps sideways, flopping onto the ground and panting at the sky.

“Ow,” she mumbles, wiping at her eyes.

“Surprising,” Jivon says, standing up and brushing off his pants. “most children who manifest after trauma go for barriers, shields, maybe a stasis for a strong biotic.”

“What?” Shepard blinks at him, confused. “What does that mean?”

Jivon picks up his datapad and stretches. “You have decent power,” he says clinically, calmly, “advanced for your age, even. No finesse.”

“What,” Shepard repeats again, dumbly. Jivon sighs, probably at her thickness, and tosses something from his pocket at her. Shepard brings up her hands, clumsy, and misses the catch. A small rock thumps into her chest, asymmetrical but polished, smooth and cold to the touch. She picks it up from the ground and sits up, rolling it in her palms. It tingles against her skin, little blue and purple sparks flashing between the rock and her fingers. “Eezo,” she says.

“You need delicacy,” Jivon says. “no amp until you can focus your own power.” He goes inside the house through the back door, and Shepard can hear him politely saying his farewells to Amariti. 

Turian claw-feet scrape on bark and crunch in light gravel as Garrus unfurls himself from the tree. He kicks at her legs, and she rolls over to lie on her back and sigh heavily at the dark sky. “You look pathetic,” he says, crouching down at her side. He touches the tip of a talon to Shepard’s rock. “what’s an amp?”

“It’s a thing they put in your neck,” Shepard tells him, half sitting up to tap at the base of her skull where the implant would go. “it helps biotics focus their power.”

Garrus grimaces at her. “That sounds gross. And painful.”

Shepard stands, stretching and feeling the pull of over-exercised muscles. “Big bad turian afraid of a little spinal surgery?”

Garrus puffs up, standing tall. “Pain is weakness leaving the body, Shepard. Isn’t that what the humans say?”

Shepard tosses the stone up in one hand and catches it again. “How the fuck do I know what the humans say?” Out of the corner of her eye she sees Garrus get all stiff and awkward, the way he does, insisting on polite and proper language at all times. She’s never heard him cuss, not once, not even when she passes him in the corridors at the school and he’s leaning up against the lockers with his friends.

“You watch the same vids I do,” Garrus says finally, but Shepard isn’t listening. She’d tossed that rock up again and gone to catch it, but just before it hits her palm it stills, five millimeters from her skin and hovers, glowing a soft steady cobalt. Her breath catches, but after a second it falls, thumping gently into her hand.

“Delicacy,” she mutters.

“What?” Garrus asks, behind her. 

“Nothing,” she replies, distracted, “gotta go. Tell your mom I’m not hungry, okay?” She takes off into the house, and Garrus follows more sedately. Amariti gestures for him to join her at the table for the evening meal. He sits across from Solana and they listen to Shepard’s feet pound up the stairs for a few seconds. Amariti sighs, casting a quick glance at the fourth place setting, levo-rations arranged and carefully plated on the fine earthen dishes they use for sit-down meals.

//

Shepard flails at her alarm, fumbling until the beeping stops. She sits up, stretching, and goes to the window to enjoy the feeling of being cold, knowing it will only last for another hour as Palaven’s sun rises and burns off the cloud cover. She dresses in the dark and crawls out her window into the tree, twining her way among the branches until she reaches the center, the spot where all the limbs meet. She settles herself down and pulls the rock out of her pocket, resting it on her palm. She licks her lips and stares, brow furrowed. 

Fifteen minutes later and she’s blinking sweat out of her eyes, more frustrated than she’s ever been in her entire life. “God _damn_ it,” she curses, flinging her hands out in frustration. A shockwave travels back through her arm, like the time she touched a live wire and felt the current like an angry vibration slam into her finger. Below her, someone yelps in surprise, and there’s the sound of a body hitting the ground.

Shepard scrambles down, panicky, and finds Garrus lying on his back in the sandpatch, groaning. She leans over him. “Sorry.”

“This the second time you’ve destroyed mom’s sandgarden,” Garrus informs her. “And you’re not even good at redoing the designs.”

Shepard scoffs at him. “ _Me_ destroying? That’s not what it looks like from here.”

Garrus raises an arm to her and Shepard takes his hand, thinking he wants help up. Instead, he opens his fingers and she feels the rock against her fingers. She scowls and lets go, contrary. The rock bounces once on his chest and spins slightly. “I give up on this bullshit, Garrus.”

Garrus pats the sand beside him, still lying prone. “Can’t mess it up even more at this point.”

Shepard exhales hard, flopping next to him. “I looked up biotics on the extranet. Little kids can hover shit. Like, babies. Without trying.”

Garrus goes very still next to her, which usually means he’s about to say something he’s not sure he should. “I read,” he ventures carefully, “that sometimes, humans that go through… certain experiences. They have a harder time of it.”

Shepard scowls at the lightening sky. “I’m broken, is what you mean.”

Garrus turns his head sideways to face her. Shepard stubbornly keeps her gaze upwards. “That’s not what I said.”

Shepard clenches her fists until her nails bite painfully into her palms. “It’s what it feels like. They won’t give an amp to someone who can’t control themselves. It’s too dangerous to let people like that tap into a boost.” In school they show little short videos during mass assembly days, warning students that showing signs of bio-manifest are never to be hidden, the dangers of lacking control: social stigma, inability to advance in the Hierarchy, mental instability, physical agony. 

Shepard turns her head sideways, sand pressing into her cheek, her face inches from Garrus’. “I’m afraid,” she whispers. Garrus moves his arm to hers, their hands tangled in the space between them.

“Do you remember the breathing cycle?” he asks, and Shepard blinks at him. “In,” he repeats, and inhales deep. He holds it until he feels her do the same. “Count, one two three,” he continues, “exhale, four five six. Hold. Seven, shoot, stop.” Shepard matches him, automatically syncing with the cycle all turians know by the age of seven, the same one snipers use. “Count,” he repeats, “one two three. Exhale, four five six. Hold. Seven, shoot, stop. One two three, exhale, four five six hold. Seven shoot, stop.”

Shepard closes her eyes, her lungs easily slipping into the clean simplicity of the count. She can feel every single one of her eyelashes against her face, she can hear her own heartbeat in the roof of her mouth. She exhales and feels Garrus’ breath on her skin, moving through the loose strands of her hair. Abruptly, Garrus’s breathing hitches, knocking her out of sync. Her eyes open and all she can see is the blue of his eyes, the sharp smooth sweep of his markings, the way his mandibles are slightly slack in awe. He’s looking at the space above them and when she looks her mouth falls open. 

The sand is swirling, swooping in the air in a loose spiral, the colours spinning and mixing in a graceful cone, glittering blue and white. Shepard resets herself, quickly, and starts breathing in the cycle again, concentrating on feeling her pulse in the tips of her fingers, on the glow of her biotics reflected in Garrus’ eyes. She feels it in her diaphragm spreading like a web. She opens her eyes and cracks her wrist.

“It’s beautiful,” Garrus murmurs, and she watches him watch her raise two fingers, the stone on his heart shaking, jerky, into the air, moving just where she tells it to go.

//

Shepard beats three of the tallest turians in her class in a footrace, and turns to laugh at their anger as they cross the finish behind her, the endorphins singing in her blood. She puts the afterburners on, sprinting over to the booth where the military officers in charge of fresh recruits are lounging. She jumps up, catching the overhang set up to cast shade over them and tilts her head at them. “What’s the PT requirement for advanced training? 10 fingertip ups?” They look back at her, steady and silent, and she does fifteen in a row just to watch their mandibles get tighter and tighter against their faces. 

//

Garrus’ birthday is in four weeks. Amariti has been in a flurry, readying the house for his farewell gathering after he enlists, and Shepard skulks around the edges, alternatively refusing to speak to him and dragging him off to go shooting. 

“It’ll be good for him to leave,” Solana says snidely, towards the end of one of their silent work periods, broken only by schoolwork questions and terse answers. “what kind of commander will he make if the human can order him around whenever she’d like.”

“What kind of commander will you make if the human can shoot the trigger out of your gun before you can fumble it out of the holster?” Shepard retorts, and Solana flings a datapad at her. Shepard brings up a barrier and fries it, sending it sparking and melted to the floor. Solana screeches in fury, shooting to her feet, and Shepard beats it back to her room, feeling slightly guilty.

Garrus is lying on her bed. “I worry about you,” he says when she pauses in the doorway. He frowns at her ceiling and she moves inside, shutting the door behind her. She crosses to the desk and puts her bag down, thumbing the lights off. “I worry about Sol too,” he continues, “but--she has her own friends, her own plans. She’s very---driven.”

Shepard leans against the way and crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not driven?”

“You know what I mean,” Garrus says, sitting up. “you never even talk at school, Shepard, not even to me.”

Shepard drops her eyes. “I’m never sure if you’d want me to.”

There’s a short guilty silence. “Of course I would,” Garrus says, but it sounds guilty, and the hesitation before he spoke screams volumes. “You don’t even give anyone a chance,” he starts, and Shepard snorts. 

“I don’t need this from you,” she says, going to the window. “you know I already get it from your parents.”

“Our parents.” Garrus argues softly from behind her. Shepard clenches her fingers on the sill.

“I had parents.” She exhales, frustrated. “Just because Relat decided I’d make a good addition to the resume doesn’t mean my real parents cease to exist.”

She hears Garrus stand. “You know that’s not why.” He joins her at the window. “But I see your point.”

She turns to smile at him. “Don’t you know by now I’m always right?”

He grins back. “What can I say? I’m a slow learner.” He bumps his shoulder into hers, gentle, and she bumps him back.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me,” she grumbles, and he rolls his eyes.

“One year,” he reminds her, “and then you’ll probably be advance-tracked into my class, showing me up just like always.”

Shepard tosses her head imperiously. “If you don’t want me to better than you, you oughtta work harder.”

Garrus ignores her. “One month,” he says quietly, looking out over the back garden. “I thought I’d feel more adult when I went into my service.”

“You’re a hell of a shot,” Shepard offers. “everything else can wait.” Garrus chuffs, amused.

“Come on,” he says, “make Mom--my mother’s day. Eat evening meal with us.”

“Fine,” Shepard says, and lets him pull her towards the door, his talons careful on the inside of her wrist.

//

“Jivon says it’s like training camp,” Shepard tells Relat, her shoulders carefully square, her spine straight, hands clasped behind her back. “it’s geared for humans, and it’s offering a scholarship for students my age, especially ones from, uh,” she hesitates, and then plows forward, reciting what she’d been practicing since Jivon told her about the facility. “my background.”

Amariti frowns from where she’s sitting at the table. “Money is not our concern. Your safety and well-being, however…”

“It’s safe,” Shepard argues. Jivon was _your_ decision, and he says--”

“You don’t know this group,” Relat interrupts from where he’s looking at the brochure she’d handed to him at the end of their meal, Solana back in her room and Garrus out doing last minute shopping for his service. “it’s a fringe group, extremist. However, their work with humans is often… well-meaning.” He frowns. “or it seems to be, at least.”

“They’re not dangerous to humans,” Shepard says tightly, “everyone knows that.”

“I will not allow you to be placed in the hands of terrorists,” Amariti says firmly. “the matter is settled.”

“As you say, wife,” Relat says. He offers her back the brochure. 

Shepard refuses to take it. “You know they’re not going to let me enlist,” she says tightly. “the Alliance won’t take me until I’m 18, the turians won’t take me at all. I’m supposed to what? Stay at the school with the underyears? Stay here and do nothing? I can’t even get an amp here because there’s no one qualified to do the procedure.”

Relat turns away from her. “We have contingency plans. We can discuss it when you’re in a more… open mood.”

Shepard’s fists clench, lighting up blue. Amariti stands, catching her attention. “Garrus leaves in two weeks,” she says quietly. “Can we have peace for him, at least?”

Shepard lets the blue fade from under her skin. “I don’t belong here,” she says coldly, and Amariti flinches.

//

Shepard throws her hand forward, muscles clenched in a certain way, and feels the flow of power through her arm. The tin can spins once and flies into the air, erratic, and Garrus follows, tracking the flight path through the sight of his rifle. It booms once, and the can explodes into paper thin shreds. He whoops and turns to smirk at her. “Still trying to pull the ‘I can’t control my biotics that well’ card, are we? On the day before I ship out, no less.”

Shepard bats her eyelashes at him and thinks about the bag under her bed, fully packed, and the ticket from Jivon stored safely in her omni-tool. “I would never.”

Garrus slings the rifle up to rest on hi shoulder, his hip cocking out, smirk wide as anything. “No matter. Make the targets do what you like, Middle Vakarian, but some people can make guns _dance_.” Shepard extends a finger, quick and careful behind her back, and a needle dart of blue lances out, knocking a can into the side of Garrus’ head. He laughs at her and turns back around.

“Pull,” he shouts, and she throws an arm out, making two cans spin clockwise into the air, a spiral, and when his shot punches cleanly through both cans at once her voice joins his in a victory yell. “I’m Garrus Vakarian!” he shouts, his rifle raised in a victory pose, “and this is my favourite spot on Palaven!”

//

Two days after Garrus enlists Shepard climbs out the window in the middle of the night, a note resting on her pillow for Amariti, lying across the rifle she’d bought for her at the pulgat. Her duffle bag slung over her shoulder, she steals across the yard and scales the fence, landing light on her feet. 

It’s a twenty minute run to the transport docks, and she makes it without a sweat. There’s a shuttle waiting for her, her name tacked to a sign on the door, and she watches Palaven shrink into a thin dot from the windows on the mass transit ship, the blue of the relay sucking everything she’s ever known away.

Two mini shuttles and a cab later and men in white and yellow armor open the door and hold her arm for the hop down. Jivon strides across a courtyard, purple and blue flowers growing up golden trees.

“Welcome to Cerberus,” he says. “Let’s get you an amp.”

//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully now it's starting to get interesting??
> 
> ;~; I still have no beta, please excuse errors as I will fix them as I become aware of them.
> 
> Comments mean to the world to me, and I am always appreciating crit :)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking of at least three more parts: adolescence, serving in the military, and perhaps one with scenes from the games. I'm still working on finishing the series so please excuse errors.
> 
> I'm just so in love with these characters!! 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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